Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 May 1893 — THE MISSING COAT. [ARTICLE]

THE MISSING COAT.

BY THOMAS G. MITCHELL.

I never told anybody how very, very near I was to death that night, just a year ago; but as I can now look back and calmly recall each word, each act, I will write it down as a warning to all who may find themselves similarly circum--atanced, hoping with all my heart that the number may be few. In the first place, my name is Frederick Putnam. I am, and have been for the last ten years, the foreman and bookkeeper of the large lumbering establishment of William Winston & Co., and hope to be for another decade, unless something better turns up. Mr. Winston is the resident partner and manager of the manufacturing part of the business. The other members of the firm, of whom there arc two, live in the city, at the foot of the lake, and attend to the sales of lumber, which we send them by vessel. This is by far the largest share of what the mill cuts, though the amount of our sales directly from the mill to supply the country to the west of us is quite large. Well, one cold evening, just as I was preparing for home, I heard footsteps on the crunching snow outside, and presently the office door flew open, as though some one in haste had given it a push, admitting a tall, stout, welldressed man, with a small travelling-bag in one hand and a shawl over his arm. I was alone, Mr. Winston having gone to the house some half-an-hour before, locking the safe, in which we kept our books and papers, and taking tlie kev with him as usual. I had already closed the damper to the stove, put on my overcoat, and was just in the act of turning down the lamp—but, of course, I waited.

. “Good evening,” said the man, bustling up to the stove, and kicking tbe damper open with his foot. “Has Winston gone to the house?” I answered that he had. “Whew! I was afraid of it.” He drew out his watch—a very fine one, I thought. “I shall not have time to go up,” he said. “The train is due in fiftceu ’minutes.” “Is there anything I can do?’’ I asked. ,“I want to leave some tnonev with Winston. I intended to stop in town a day or two, but I have just got a despatch that calls me home.” “What name, sir?” “Anderson, of Andersonville.” I knew him then, though I had seen him but once before. He had been one of our best Western customers. I say had been for the reason that during the past year his payments had not been so prompt. In fact, he was considered behind, and Winston had that very day told me to write to him, and “punch him up a little,” as he expressed it. The letter was then in the breast pocket of my overcoat. “You can leave the monev with me air, and I will give you a receipt.” He seemed to hesitate which nettled ££*2£r. 1 MTer bUlDe<l “ ybod *

"How much fs my bill?” he asked, eyeing me sharply, I answered promptly, for I had struck the balance not more than half an hour before. "Eleven thousand seven hundred aod fifty dollars and twenty-three cents.” “Humph! Less than I supposed. Write me out a receipt for that amount." He left the stove and came and looked over my shoulder while I wrote. “It is all right. Mr. Putnam. I know you now. You’ve been with long time. I can tell your signature anywhere.” He drew from in inside jiockct a largo black wallet, very round and full, and counting out eleven different piles of banknotes, he told me to count them. It was a'short and easy task, for each pile contained just one hundred bills. The balance was in fives, twenties, and took more time to count them; but at last we got it so that both were satisfied. At this moment we heard the whistle from the station. Anderson sprang for his traveling-bag, and giving me a hasty hand-shake, was off on the run. I closed the door and counted the money again. Finding it all right, I wrapped a piece of newspaper around it and slipped it into my overcoat pocket. I did not feel ipdte easy to have so much mouey about me; but as Winston’s house was at least a mile distant, I concluded to keep it until morning, when 1 could deposit it in the bank.

Iclosed the damper again, drew on ray gloves, took the office key from the nail just over the door, and stepped up ; to *put out the light. As I did so 1 saw a bit of paper on the floor, which, on picking up, I saw was the receipt I wrote for Mr. Anderson. He had dropped it in his hurry. I put it iu my pocket, and thought no more about it; otilv that I would mail it to him. I would have done it then, but as the last mail for that day had gone out on the train which took Mr. Anderson, I could do it just as well in the morning. Then, too, I was in something of a hurry that night, for I had an appointment; and I may ns well state here that it was with a young lady who I hoped would be my wife before many months. I hastened to my boarding house, ate my supper, and then went over to Mr. Warner’s, wearing the coat with the money in it, as I did not feel easv about leaving it in my room. Carrie was at home,, of course, as she was expecting me, and, leaving my hat and coat in the hall, I went into the parlor. Ido not think a repetition of our conversation would be very interesting, so I will pass it over, merely remarking that nothing occurred to disturb me until I rose to take my leave. Carrie went into the hall for ray coat and hat, that I might put them on by the warm fire; but she came back with only ray }jat. '‘Why, Fred, you certainly did not venture out on such a night as this without an overcoat ?” “No coat!’’l exclaimed, in a dazed sort of way; for the thought of the money flashed upon me so suddenly that it almost stunned me. The next moment I tore past her like a madman, as I was. The coat was gone! Then I was unnerved. I grasped at the stair-rail, and caught it just in time to support myself. Carrie came running out, her face pale with alarm. “Oh, Fred! are you ill ? Let me call mother and the doctor! You are as white as a sheet.” “No, uo, Carrie!” I entreated. “There, I am better now.” And I was better. I was strong, all at once—desperately strong. And what brought about this change ? That simple receipt which I had in my pocket. Anderson had nothing to show that the money had not been paid; and was not my unaided word as good as his ? °

I was foolish enough to believe that I could brave it through, aud I grew confident and quite easy at once. “There, Carrie, lam much better now. The room was too warm, I guess. So some sneaking thief has dodged iu and stolen my coat? Well, let it go. It was an old one, and now I’ll li&ve a better ono.” “But was there nothing in the pockets !” asked Carrie. It is strange how suspicious guilt will make us. 1 really thought Carrie suspected me. and an angry reply was on the end of ray tongue. I suppressed it, however, aud uttered a falsehood instead. “Nothing of consequence, Carrie. A good pair of gloves and some other trifling notions.” “I am glad it is not worse, Fred. Now, if you will wait a moment, I will get you one of father’s coats to wear home.” Thus equipped, I left her. You may guess that my slumbers that night were not very sound, nor very refreshing. I never passed a more miserable nighty and in the morning my haggard looks were the subject of remark. “Why, Fred, you look ns though you met a legion of ghosts last night,” said Winston. “What is the matter?” “I had a bad night of it,” I answered with a sickly smile. “And you’ll have another if you’re not careful; you had better keep quiet today. By the way, did you write to Anderson ?” I do not know how I managed to reply, for the question set me shivering from head to foot, and I was so wean that I could scarcely sit in my chair. I must have answered in the affirmative, however, for he said: “Then we may look for something from him to-morrow or next day.” Immediately afterward he added: “Why, Fred, you shiver ns though you had the ague, and you are sweating like a butcher! You’re ill, man. Come, jump iDto iny trap, and I’ll take you home.”

I was glad of the chance to get away, and on reaching my home I locked myself in. Ah 1 those were terrible hours that I passed, and, night coming on, brought me no Telief. Can you not guess what I was meditating ? Coward that I was, I had at last resolved on self-destruc-tion. I commenced my preparation with the same calmness and deliberation that I would have used in the most common transaction. I wrote a short explanation for Carrie, another for Mr. Winston, a third for my poor mother; and I sealed them all. In a fourth envelope I enclosed the receipt to Mr. Anderson. All this accomplished, I went to my secretaire and took out my revolver. Having examined the cartridges to make sure that there would be no failure, I sat down before the fire, nnd lifting the revolver, I placed its cold, death-like muzzle against my forehead. In another second I should have been lifeless; but juat as my finger began to press the trigger, there came a tap on my door. It startled me, and, hastily eoncealing my weapon, I called out that I could admit no one. “Not me, Fred?” I 'tnew Carrie’s voice, u» • yearning

to look on her loved face got the mastery of me. Quietly slipping the telltale letters, which I had left on the table, into my pocket, I opened the door. “Oh, Fred, you are really iH !’’ exclaimed Carrie the moment the light fell ou my face. “Why did you not send for me? Aren’t you better?” “Worse,” I answered, husk : ly; “but Carrie—good hdavens ! ” As 1 uttered this exclamation I started back, and then forward; and then—l scarcely know what, for hanging across Carrie’s arm was my overcoat! Recovering from my astonishment, I drew out eleven thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars and twenty-three cents. You have heard about, and perhaps seen, the singular capers of a madman, or the wild antics of those crazed with rum, or grotesque dancing of savages. Well, judging from what Carrie told me and from the appearance of my apartment after it was over, I am led to believe that, were it possil le to concentrate the three above mentioned species of demons into one 1 was possessed thereby. Rut I cooled down after awhile, and just in time to sav- Janie's head a thump from the chair I had selected in my crazy waltz. Then I asked for an explanation. It was the simplest thing imaginable. Ido not know why 1 had not thought of it before. It was simply a ‘blunder of Carrie's father. He had rpiatakeu my coat for his own, and worn it down town, never dreaming'that a small fortune was lying idly in\he pocket. I tent Mr. Anderson his receipt, handed over the money to Winston, and went right on with my duties, a wiser, and, I hope, a better man.—[Drake’s Magazine.